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Strong big hands scooped me up and held me tight. Uncle Ethan, warm and large and not empty, there, solid like the ground.
“Is this your choice?” he asked not-Mama, sadness seeping into me everywhere.
“Yes.” The lightning stopped, and the rain, and she floated near us. I hid my face. I wanted Mama, and I started crying. I wanted Papa.
A roll of thunder.
“Then you have to go and leave her with me. She’s too young. I invoke the pact, Moira. You can’t call her until she starts bleeding.”
Silence. I cried, and he rocked me, soothing feelings pouring into me, as thunder grumbled above us.
“Alys, little girl. Shh. Do you want me to make this feel better, go away, so you can stay with me?” Ethan made me look at his face, serious and worried.
I nodded.
“Then I’ll put it all behind a door, and only you can open it. But if you do, you won’t be Alys anymore. Remember that, baby girl.”
Then all the sadness retreated, and I relaxed, and the sun came back out.
Metal rattled on a tray. I opened my eyes.
Annabelle turned to me, smiling. She settled by my head, playing with the flame from a miniature torch.
“Let’s start again,” she cooed. “You only need one eye right now.”
Screaming again, buried in pain, Chance’s magic brushed me. No idea what he was doing though, but it was subtle and distant. I sobbed and dry heaved, my stomach empty.
“Do you have anything to tell me now?” Annabelle asked, reaching for her favorite scalpel.
The locked door blew off its hinges, impacting the opposite side of the room.
Walker stalked in, eyes blazing, his hand knotted in Ross Cohen’s collar. He wore a long black robe thrown over his normal clothing, with a hood that was thrown back. Cohen dragged on the floor, both hands on his collar, fighting to keep it from choking him.
Even though it wasn’t safe for him at all, I was so very glad he was here. He looked ripe for murder and strode toward me and my torturer. Though the robe niggled at me, I’d seen a similar one on Flint, when the Judges put me on the Tree.
Annabelle pressed the scalpel under my right ear. “That’s close enough.”
Kara ran in, Joan right behind her. Joan’s lips were pressed firmly against each other, her eyes narrow as her gaze flickered from Anabelle to Cohen to the mage-Ridden.
“W-w-witnessed,” Kara stammered as soon as she saw me. She was green and shaking, stumbling to a halt, eyes wide. Ah, yes, she had her birthday a week ago. She was an adult, a citizen, and could stand as the second witness needed in court for a charge against someone in the political caste.
They could be prosecuted now with all the formalities observed; the fact he was related to the President wouldn’t help him now.
An inappropriate snicker tried to escape with the blood from my mouth. It was good all the legalities had been observed, right? Cohen was nailed.
“If any of you moves, she dies,” said Anabelle, pressing the scalpel harder. “This is over her carotid. She’ll bleed out faster than you can save her. Release Mr. Cohen, or she dies now.”
The mage-Ridden stood still, shaking.
Chance stood in the doorway, his face stony as his eyes shifted from me to Annabelle. He was planning something.
The mage, face stilled, eyes wide, gazed at Walker.
Walker hadn’t released the pressure on Ross Cohen’s collar, judging by the gagging noises on the floor.
Human and inhuman emotions struggled in the Ridden’s face and his eyes shone for a moment with hope.
“Rope. Judge,” he said, staring straight at Walker, “you finally came. Judge me. Kill me.” His voice was peaceful, then he threw his head back and emitted a shriek that should not have come from a human throat.
